


Lovers Lie Abed

by lotherington



Series: Long Ago and Far Away [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Historical, M/M, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘When did you know? When did you know you loved me?’</i>
</p>
<p>WWII AU. January, 1944. Sherlock's leave comes to an end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovers Lie Abed

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from 'In My Craft or Sullen Art' by Dylan Thomas. I know I said I was trying to update this weekly, but the last few weeks have been stupidly busy. I'm sorry! No promises on when the next one will be, but hopefully fairly soon. :)

_January, 1944  
Sunday_

Not for the first time, Sunday came too quickly. Sherlock woke late to rays of weak winter sunlight across his face, dust motes dancing above his head. He stretched and sighed, untangling himself from the sheets wrapped round his waist and legs, the blanket and eiderdown already half-hanging on the floor.

‘Oh, you’re awake,’ said John from the doorway, carrying a circular tray in one hand, his stick in the other. 

‘Only just,’ Sherlock replied, sitting up against the headboard and smiling at John, who walked forwards, faltering just a little as he put the tray down on the bed next to Sherlock.

‘What are you doing dressed?’ Sherlock asked, moving the tray onto his lap, pushing the tangle of covers away from John’s space in the bed, patting the mattress.

‘It’s half past ten.’ John sat down on the bed, taking his shoes off then bringing his legs up, turning onto his good right side to face Sherlock.

‘That means nothing,’ Sherlock said, sipping the tea John had brought up. ‘All it means is that you’ve got far more clothes on than you ought to have and it’s going to make undressing you that bit more difficult.’ He bit decisively into a slice of toast.

Smiling, John rested a hand on Sherlock’s knee, rubbing gently. ‘I do apologise.’

‘As you jolly well should,’ Sherlock said, turning to smirk at John.

The sunlight fell over Sherlock’s hair as he ate his toast and drank his tea, giving his dark curls an auburn glow that was rarely seen. John’s hand slipped down to Sherlock’s bare inner thigh, his callused fingers resting against the soft, pale skin there.

‘When will it all be over?’ John murmured, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock’s reply was quiet. ‘I don’t know,’ he said against the rim of his teacup, putting the saucer on his other thigh, carding his fingers through John’s greying hair. ‘But I’ll soon be back here with you, sending you round the twist.’

‘I shan’t ever complain about your experiments again,’ John whispered. ‘It’s so quiet without you here.’

Putting the tray atop a stack of books on his bedside table, Sherlock rolled onto his side to face John. ‘Don’t be sad,’ he said, his fingers tracing the outline of John’s lips. ‘I can’t bear it when you’re sad.’

‘I’m not... sad,’ John lied. ‘I just... I can’t help but miss you.’ He ran his palm down Sherlock’s chest. ‘Everything’s awfully grey without you.’

‘Everything’s always grey, John, you just don’t notice.’

‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Sherlock breathed, staring down at John for a long moment before pulling him into a gentle, undemanding kiss. 

The old bed creaked and groaned as they shifted, the mattress dipping, the sheets tangling further around Sherlock. A wayward curl fell over his eye as he kissed John, who sighed, rolling onto his back, tugging Sherlock on top of him.

‘Why on earth you got dressed...’ Sherlock murmured, easing one leg over John, pressing his lips to every bit of skin he could reach.

‘Well, what if someone was to come to the door?’

‘No-one’s come to the door all week,’ Sherlock replied, kissing John’s jawline, slipping the buttons of John’s shirt through their holes. ‘No-one will be coming to the door this morning.’

‘Yes, well,’ John muttered, undoing the knot of his tie and throwing it onto the floor. ‘Someone might have--’

Sherlock dipped his head and shoved his lips against John’s, sliding his hand down the front of John’s trousers, his grip tight as he started to stroke, designed to be distracting.

‘Sh-Sherlock, John gasped, grabbing hold of Sherlock’s shoulder and pushing his hips upwards. ‘Oh...’

‘Now, would you stop arguing with me,’ Sherlock purred, his voice pitched low as he bit and licked at John’s chest, his hand moving slowly around John’s burgeoning arousal, ‘and let me have you.’

***

‘Light this for me,’ Sherlock muttered some time later, throwing his packet of cigarettes and his lighter at John’s bare chest. ‘My fingers refuse to co-operate.’

Laughing, still breathless, John slipped one of the cigarettes between Sherlock’s red, swollen lips, flicking the wheel of the lighter a few times. Sherlock sucked in, the end of the cigarette glowing amber as smoke began to drift towards the ceiling. John rested on his elbow, head propped against his fist.

‘Take it out,’ Sherlock mumbled around the cigarette.

‘What?’

‘My fag, take it out.’

‘You’re unbelievable,’ John said, though he removed the cigarette from Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock breathed out quickly immediately afterwards, blowing the smoke towards the slightly-open window.

‘Now put it back,’ he said with a smirk.

‘God, I loathe you.’ John slipped the cigarette between Sherlock’s lips.

‘No you don’t,’ Sherlock said before inhaling.

John smiled weakly, removing the cigarette without prompting this time.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’

‘You love me,’ Sherlock said, grinning after blowing another lungful of smoke towards the window.

John closed his eyes, and nodded once.

‘When did you know? When did you know you loved me?’

‘Do you remember,’ John said quietly, trailing his fingertip along Sherlock’s side, ‘do you remember the first case you ever dragged me out on?’

Sherlock frowned, thinking back. ‘The murders that were done up to look as though they were suicides?’ he spoke around his cigarette, taking it out himself this time, sending the smoke ceilingwards. The bed creaked.

‘That’s the one. A Study in Violet, I called it, in my head, in my diary.’ John brushed his thumb to Sherlock’s bottom lip, his eyes half-lidded and fond. ‘It was after you’d spent the weekend in my horrible old flat, naked as the day you were born. I couldn’t get rid of you.’

‘I don’t recall you complaining at the time.’

John laughed. ‘Of course I wasn’t complaining. You were beautiful.’ Sherlock’s eyes drifted shut and a smile spread over his face. ‘You... you turned up at the hospital on the Monday afternoon, just as my shift was finishing, do you remember?’

Sherlock nodded.

‘I thought you’d come to blackmail me.’

‘Ludicrous.’ Sherlock inhaled deeply from his cigarette before stubbing it out in the saucer on the breakfast tray John had brought him up.

‘I know that now. Anyway, you dragged me away from work, talking ten to the dozen about some pills or some other nonsense. I think I thought you were mad.’

‘You still think I’m mad.’

‘Mm. You shoved me in a taxi and took me to Shoreditch, where there was that dead woman on the floor, in the violet suit, remember, with the violet handbag and hat and shoes. You deduced everything about her, of course, and then you ran off, to go hunting for her violet weekend bag. Left me in Shoreditch with Lestrade.’

Sherlock laughed. ‘I remember.’

‘I thought I’d never see you again.’

‘And unluckily for you...’

John smiled, kissed Sherlock gently. ‘It was that night. That night when we went for fish and chips South of the River. ‘You were proud and arrogant and brilliant and I wanted all of you, everything.’

Sherlock wrapped one arm around John’s waist and moved closer, resting his head on John’s chest. ‘You have me.’

‘And I’m glad of it every day,’ John whispered, scratching Sherlock’s scalp. ‘Every day.’

Sherlock kissed John’s neck and settled in next to him, rubbing low on John’s belly. John brushed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. They lay in silence for some time, until the clock struck for midday. 

‘What time’s your train?’ John opened out Sherlock’s palm and traced the lines etched into it with his fingertip, lips brushing over the pale, ink-stained skin.

‘Three,’ Sherlock sighed, moving his hand to cup John’s jaw. ‘Don’t come to the station, I’m sick to death of seeing your face through the window of a train.’

‘Charming.’

‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ Sherlock said, sounding irritable, frowning as he folded himself closer into John’s side. 

‘I know.’ John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. ‘How long until your next leave?’

‘Another three months. Eastertime.’

John nodded and opened Sherlock’s cigarette case, lighting one for him and handing it down. Sherlock took it gratefully, getting halfway through it before he spoke again.

‘Why don’t you move to Bletchley?’

‘What?’

‘Oh, it would be perfect, I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before!’ Sherlock sat up, hair wild, cigarette between his lips as he stared at the ceiling, already carried away with his own idea. ‘We could get ourselves a little cottage in the village, I could move out of the big house - I’m not really meant to be there anyway - and I’d see you every day--’

‘And what would I do, Sherlock?’ John said quietly, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes.

‘Well, what exactly are you doing here?’

John’s face clouded over and he threw the covers back, his limp even more pronounced than usual as he went into the bathroom and slammed the door so hard the glass in the frame shook.

‘John,’ Sherlock called, sighing, wrapping his third-best dressing gown around himself as he followed, stubbing his cigarette out on the doorframe on the way. ‘John, I... oh, for God’s -- you know that’s not what I meant!’

Sherlock heard the creak of the taps twisting and the sound of water hitting the floor of the bath.

‘John.’

Silence. Sherlock jiggled the doorknob, but the door was locked.

‘You know I’ll pick this lock if I must.’

Nothing.

‘Right.’ Sherlock went back into the bedroom and rummaged around in his bedside drawer until he found his spare set of lockpicking tools, carrying them back to the bathroom door. As soon as he pulled the torsion wrench out of the case, the key turned from the other side and John opened the door a fraction. 

‘You know I didn’t mean it like that,’ Sherlock said, folding his arms and sitting on the toilet seat as John slid into the bath.

‘Never mind it, Sherlock.’ John twisted the taps off and grabbed the soap off the side of the bath.

‘But you know I--’

‘I said never mind it,’ John snapped, dipping the bar of soap under the water. ‘Just... go and scratch something together for lunch. There’s a tin of bully beef in the cupboard and we’ve some potatoes, you could...’

Sherlock knelt at the edge of the bath, pulling John’s face towards him and pressing their lips together.

‘I’ve got things to do, I need to be here, I need to be in London,’ John said when they parted, eyes closed, frowning. ‘A position will open up at one of the hospitals soon, I can’t just up sticks and--’

‘Alright,’ Sherlock murmured, kissing John again, taking the soap off him. ‘Alright, I... you know I didn’t... I... Look, just lean forward, I’ll do your back.’

John half-smiled and rolled his eyes, leaning forwards. ‘Apology accepted,’ he murmured as Sherlock’s hands stroked across his skin.

***

‘Why do you slick your hair back?’ John asked when Sherlock walked into the living room a couple of hours later, ready to catch his train. He looked aloof and very different in his tweed suit and the tie from his college at Oxford, his hair swept back neatly off his face. He held his suitcase tightly, a world away from the happy, relaxed creature that had been sprawled in the bed that morning.

‘The others are somewhat disconcerted by my hairstyle if I leave it how I used to... how I normally have it.’ Sherlock coughed and adjusted his tie in the mirror.

‘And since when do you care about the opinions of other people?’ John asked mildly, turning back to his newspaper, pouring himself another cup of tea from the pot.

‘I don’t,’ Sherlock said, too quietly, after too long a pause. ‘I’ve a day off the week after next, I could come here for the afternoon, or you could come to me, if you’d like that.’

John grabbed his stick and walked over to Sherlock from the table, kissing him. ‘I’d like that very much.’

‘I’ll telephone nearer the time,’ Sherlock said, holding himself stiffly.

‘See that you write in the meantime,’ John replied, straightening Sherlock’s already-straight collar. ‘A postcard. Something. Anything.’

Sherlock nodded. ‘I really ought to go.’

John kissed Sherlock’s cheek and breathed in the smell of him. ‘I love you,’ he whispered before stepping back, brushing an imaginary piece of lint from Sherlock’s suit jacket. 

Grabbing his hat and coat from the hatstand, Sherlock pulled them on, flipping his collar up. He kissed John again. ‘I love you too,’ he said, kissing John again. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ He picked up his suitcase and breathed out heavily, looking sadly at John.

‘You’ll miss your train,’ John said, squeezing Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock leant in for another quick kiss, gripping the back of John’s neck tightly before pulling back, stroking John’s nape, brushing their lips together once more, murmuring ‘I love you,’ before he turned on his heel and left the flat.

John waited until the sound of Sherlock’s quick footsteps through the thin windowpanes faded away before he clicked the door of 221b shut and twisted the key in the lock.


End file.
